What Happened to You?
by PsychoWing
Summary: Cecil hates Steve Carlsberg. We all know that. But why does he hate Steve so much? Takes place in the same universe as "Little Lion Man" and a bit before.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Cecil Baldwin, Steve Carlsberg, Welcome to Night Vale, and anything else you recognize belong to Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Cranor.

**NOTE****:** I am not the author of this fic. My friend, Ellakey, is. I'm just posting it for her.

* * *

Nobody knew for sure what Cecil Baldwin and Steve Carlsberg, lovers or friends of something else entirely. Cecil himself wasn't completely certain. He didn't even remember a time when he didn't know Steve; it was just one of those relationships that sort of just always were.

Of course, everyone knew that wasn't true, but even the elderly Mrs. Carlsberg, now widowed, couldn't remember. So as far as everyone was concerned, Steve and Cecil had always been fast friends and more.

It was all well before Carlos had arrived and captured the town's attention, before Josie met her angels, before Cecil's show became as popular as it is now. It was a quiet day in Night Vale, except at Steve's home, a little, so-called "cozy" place above a stationary store that he owned (this was before pens and other writing utensils were outlawed as well).

"You're going where?" Cecil's usually reserved tones were pitched inhumanely high, and he sat up, searching for his glasses. "Why are you telling this to me now of all times?" They had just been making out for void's sake!

Steve sat up, pulling Cecil against his chest, only to get shoved away. "Cecil, I haven't told you because I knew you'd overreact. And when you overreact, you really, really overreact, and typically on air as well as off."

Cecil pouted, crossing his arms and letting his lower lip jut out like a child. "But why are you going to Colorado? And why next week?" He didn't push Steve's arms away this time; it would've spoiled the image he was trying to make, an image heavily spoiled by the fact his hair was mussed up, his shirt was still tugged up where gravity had just decided to stop working, and legs were too tangled in the bedsheets to escape.

Steve draped himself over Cecil's back, kissing his ear before gently biting and tugging on the lobe. Cecil shivered involuntarily. "My grandmother died, so Mom wants me to go with her for the service. It'll only be for like a week at the most while we set Grandpa up and take care of the bills and everything. I'd take you with me but – "

"I have a job to do, I know. I'm the Voice," Cecil grumbled, leaning into his arms. "I'm not supposed to leave. I know all this, but it doesn't make me any less happy that you're leaving."

"Oh Cecil, you're so possessive. Don't you know that's going to get you hurt one day?" Steve asked, laughing and moving to tickle the broadcaster's sides, making him yelp and squirm. "I'll be back before you know it, okay? Just try not to let the world end while I'm gone okay? I'm rather fond of my shop."

"Ste-e-eve, stop! Mercy, mercy!" Cecil broke free of Steve's grip, tripping himself up and falling off the bed, face pressed into the musty carpet.

"Are you okay?" Steve helped unravel Cecil's cocoon and pull him back up, kissing the bump on Cecil's forehead and making the man wince. "That's what you get for running away," he added teasingly.

"Oh shut up. You officially murdered the mood, you jerk," Cecil said pouting. "I swear you're worse than that racist Apache Tracker sometimes." He was quiet for a beat before shaking his head. "No, he's always worse. Asshole."

"Okay, can you not focus for like five seconds Cecil? I know you don't like talking about it, but you deflect too much." Steve pinched his face, making Cecil face him. "I'm only going to be gone for a week at the very longest and then I'll be back and never leave again – until my Grandpa dies at least."

Cecil mumbled, poofing out his cheeks to make Steve let go. "All right, fine. I guess I'll live that long. But I'm not letting go of you ever again, okay? You're my best friend."

Steve held open his arms, letting Cecil press against him and laughing softly. "I know. You're mine too Ceece and plenty more." He kissed Cecil's hair lightly and tugged his shirt straight finally, making Cecil squirm. "Chill out dude, I'm not going to try and tickle you with that big old lump on your head already."

Cecil gave him a suspicious look before reaching around him and grabbing Steve's shirt, jerking it unceremoniously over the man's head. "Hey!"

"I don't trust you Steve Carlsberg and you know that." He was pouting again when Steve fixed his shirt, still pouting when Steve kissed him, though sometime between the start of the kiss and getting pushed back into the pillows he stopped pouting and started kissing back, tugging at Steve's shirt and nipping at his lips and tongue. "S-Steve, stop trying to recover the mood. You…br-you already broke it."

"Yeah, I don't see that at all," Steve said, teasingly nipping lower, sucking on his throat. "Maybe if you talk to me I'll stop."

"Steve," he whined, huffing and letting out a whine when Steve pushed his shirt collar down enough to lick at his collarbone. "F-fine. Today when I woke up the…ah stop licking there!...the secret police had left me a, erm, red envelope with today's story – Steve that tickles! You said you were going to stop!"

Steve finally pulled away, grinning and patting Cecil's belly. "Sorry. It's hard to resist though. You should get some tattoos. It'd give me an excuse to trace your stomach without tickling."

Cecil pushed at him, sitting up and smoothing his hair. "Let's go to Big Rico's. I've not had my slice for the week and neither have you."

"How do you know?" Steve asked, even as he went to pull on his shoes. Cecil stuck his head under the bed to retrieve his flip flops. "And please tell me you aren't going to wear those pants in public."

"What's wrong with my pants?" he asked, looking at the tiny dinosaurs that looked hand-stitched. They might've been. Josie had given him the pants.

"I like the ones with the foxes better."

Cecil rolled his eyes and finished tying his shoes before standing. "Those are at home, being washed. Maybe I'll wear them when you get back."

"I like that idea," he replied, smacking Cecil on the butt as he walked out. "Now get going; you're blocking the door."

Cecil yelped and obeyed, hurrying. He turned and punched Steven, playfully, deciding not to worry about the future and let it play out on its own.


	2. Chapter 2

While Steve was gone, Cecil decided to take his words to heart, and went to get his first tattoo. He'd been debating on getting one for awhile now, years really, but he'd been told the same thing whenever he brought it up.

"One day you'll have a tattoo, the next day you'll open an multi-dimensional rift that tears apart time and space as we know it and let out some awful eldritch monster on the world. And it won't even pay taxes." But Steve would like it, he wanted it, and surely one teeny-tiny tattoo won't hurt the fabric of time and space.

He got it between his shoulderblades, after a day of waffling between two municipally approved designs and one not-quite-so approved. He went with an eye; it was simple enough and surely wouldn't hurt anything. On the last point he was wrong. Getting a tattoo hurt dreadfully, especially when the man worked over his spine. By the end of it, Cecil was in tears and he had gritted his teeth so hard it hurt to talk later during his show. But he got through (he had to, as Station Management oh so kindly reminded him) and the next day the pain wasn't so bad. When it came time for Steve to return, it almost didn't hurt anymore, though he was still covering it up when he got in the shower and wearing looser shirts.

Steve returned on a Sunday, and Cecil had his reel of red and blue dots handy, walking around the studio apartment he had started renting when his mother died. When had she died? Four, five years ago? He couldn't really remember. At any rate, he was debating between labeling the leftovers as blue or red when his phone went off.

"Hello?"

"Cecil, you have caller id. The joke's getting old." Steve sounded a bit exasperated, if somewhat staticy. That was normal though.

"Steve! For once I wasn't actually looking at the id. You're back then? Can I meet up with you? Or can you come here? I've missed you and got something to show you. It's really neat!" There was a moment of silence and then Steve started laughing. Cecil shifted how he was standing, confused. "What is it? Did I say something weird again?"

Steve was still laughing, and Cecil was pretty sure he was covering his mouth to muffle himself. "N-no, Cecil, geeze. Not at all. I've been surrounded by quiet, mournful people for an entire week. I'm happy to hear somebody that doesn't sound like they've got a sinus infection."

"Oh," Cecil said, smiling a bit in relief. "So, uh, will you come over?"

"Yeah, just give me a bit. I'll be there in about thirty minutes, okay?" Cecil nodded before catching himself and making a vocal agreement. Thirty minutes was just enough time to shower.

Steve looked different. It wasn't his hair, which was wet, or the shade of his skin or even his clothes, though they were a bit rumpled like they'd just come out of the dryer. It wasn't in his grin either when he got to Cecil's apartment and hugged the man before they were even back in the apartment. The hooded figure that lived across the landing had to clear its throat to get the pair to move.

Cecil wasn't sure what was different until they sat down with a pair of hot dogs and a bag of chips to eat lunch and Steve started talking about the funeral.

"To begin with, they apparently did not use Grandmother's blood to created a blood sigil and prevent her soul from escaping the body," Steve was saying, to Cecil's sordid fascination, food half forgotten. "And then they just buried her."

"What about the ritual screaming?" Cecil asked.

Steve shook his head, opening the bag of chips with a rustle. "Nope. There was some crying, but no screaming or wailing or ripping of clothes. I started to pull off my tie but Grandpa made me stop. He said that it's just not done outside of Night Vale."

Cecil looked appalled. "Did you at least make sure there was a stake in the heart and her head was cut off?" When Steve shook his head again, he went a bit pale. "That's…that sounds so primitive!"

Steve leaned forward and that differentness was there again. It made Cecil's skin crawl and he leaned back automatically, not that Steve noticed. "They don't do any of that because the corpses don't come to life Cecil. It's so strange. There are no hooded figures, streets don't disappear, and people complain about the government all the time without disappearing. They vote for people Cecil, like for mayor or city councils or even Congress, and nobody is locked up to make sure they even vote correctly."

Cecil was silent, hot dog halfway to his mouth as Steve continued to explain how people were judged by the color of their skin and weight and gender and how much sex they had or didn't have, how no, child stealing was not condoned and murder was illegal, but you could have all the pens and ink you wanted, how basically Night Vale wasn't even on the maps. When Steve stopped, throat dry, to take a sip of soda, Cecil remembered himself and set the hot dog down.

"That sounds…" He had to pause and think of the right words to place in the right order. "That sounds incredible – incredibly terrifying and horrible and strange and maybe a little bit wonderful."

"Just a little bit? Imagine how freeing it would be to be able to eat whatever we wanted to. Cecil, I like pizza as much as the next guy, but having it three nights a week is just too much. And burning down the pizza places don't do a thing because new ones come up within a month, sometimes two, and then we have to have pizza four nights a week." Agitated, Steve stood and started pacing. "I did a lot of thinking while Mother worked on the paperwork or the nursing home and I helped Grandpa pack and sell or store his belongings. There's a lot of crappy stuff in that world, racism, sexism, that sort of thing, but it's not something we've just never dealt with before. Look at the Apache Tracker. He's the biggest asshole this side of Red Mesa."

Cecil nodded wholeheartedly in agreement. "Things have really gone to the dogs since he moved from Desert Bluffs," he started, but Steve held up a hand to shut him up.

"Yes, yes, I know, but let me finish Cecil, please." Steve stopped pacing, staring out the window as he thought. "Sure, the rest of the world has that stuff in spades, but they have so many good things too. People don't come back from the dead. Citizens have control over their government and not vice versa. And I could eat Thai food five nights a week if I wanted to, no burning of buildings needed." He stepped forward, hands on Cecil's shoulders. "Can you imagine what a great place it would be if we could combine the tolerance that Night Vale has for people who are not the Apache Tracker and his ilk with the benefits from the rest of the world?"

"Thai food doesn't taste that great, Steve," Cecil said after a few minutes of silence. The other man's face fell and he hurried to continue. "I mean, it just sounds so alien. And you were only there for a week. Are you sure it's all that great?"

"I am, Cecil. And I'll show you. You just have to help me. Maybe you can interview me for your radio show on a slow day or something? I could even run for mayor!" Steve gave Cecil a pleading look. "Please Cecil. I'm depending on your support. I need you."

The broadcaster met those pleading eyes and looked away, troubled. On the one hand, he really wanted to help his friend and confidant, but on the other, some of the things Steve was saying didn't sound good. They sounded, well, rather horrifying to a man who had never left Night Vale. But the way Steve was looking at him…

He sighed and gave Steve a slightly nervous smile. "All right Steve. I'll help you. What's the worst that can happen?"


End file.
